June 01, 2003
We're Just Not Getting Along
There was a time, way back when, where I could easily wax poetic on any topic that popped into my little brain. Then came Movable Type. It's not that I can't appreciate all that it has to offer me; I do. It's just that in using it, the creative side of me just goes *poof.*
I attribute this personality clash to simply a matter of getting to know MT better, hence my attempts to change layout, colors, etc. Therefore, bear with me as I continue to change colors, layout, etc. until I end up with something a bit more satisfying ...
Hopefully, the poetic waxing will return as well.
June 02, 2003
Ignorance ...
... is bliss. I guess for some people that works.
Chinese Internet Activists Jailed
Four men were accused of posting essays critical of the Chinese government on the Internet and setting up the New Youth Society, a discussion group dedicated to exploring democracy and social reform. One essay was titled "China's democracy is fake." Two of the men were setenced to 10 years in prison, the other two received 8 years. - Reuters.
June 04, 2003
Can't Smile Without You
Call me cruel, but I couldn't help myself and found humor in the news that Barry Manilow broke his nose. Seems he woke up disoriented in the middle of the night, walked into a wall and broke his nose, knocking himself unconscious (the funny part is that I've managed to pull off similar maneuvers.) Anyway, he's also known for his self-deprecating sense of humor, which Zoe and I can appreciate. :-)
2003 U.S. Air Guitar Championships
For all you air guitar players out there ...
Win a trip to Finland! The East Coast Regionals are being held this Friday, June 6 in NYC at the Pussycat Lounge. The West Coast Regionals/Finals will be held in Los Angeles on June 28.
June 05, 2003
Dreams
In January, my friend David was featured in an online zine in a story about a schooner he was in the midst of building. (The link and story are including in my January archives.) There was a statement he made that I am re-posting, just because ...
"There's nothing so awful as the moment you realize your dreams are within reach.
I have literally been reduced to tears by the sudden epiphany that the only thing
standing between me and living the life I want is the doing. [When I look at the
plans for the the Loose Moose II, or Illinois, or Wyoming, or Breakdown Schooner,]
I am faced with the terrible knowledge that they are all within reach; that if
that's what I really want, it's something I can do; that my day of reckoning has arrived."
And your dreams...?
June 08, 2003
Tumbleweed
It took a while before I realized what had happened. The only thing that did register was that whatever just occurred, pandemonium ensued at 1 a.m. early Friday morning. OH MY GOD, ARE YOU OKAY!?!?!? STAY THERE, I'LL CALL THE RESCUE! All I wanted to do was scream. But I just lay there, motionless for what seemed like an eternity, because I knew that before I did anything else, I'd have to do the mental inventory of the physical damage, if there was indeed any.
I was sleep deprived and quite anxious to get myself into a deep slumber, the kind where if rockets and grenades were thrown under the covers, I'd still remain asleep. I'd taken my shoes off, ran up the stairs to get something and planned to come back down and jump under the blanket. I didn't take into account the socks I'd left on my feet, OR the carpeted stairs. The next thing I knew, my head had bounced off a stair along with the rest of my body. The image wasn't pretty. Once I realized what I had done, my eyes opened and focused on my sprawled out body. My head hurt, and my eyes shifted to my left leg, twisted abnormally with my left foot deeply rooted in a glass picture frame that had been placed at the bottom of the stairs to be hung on the wall. Shards of glass stuck out from all sides of my socked foot. I decided I'd think about that in a few minutes, after I'd completely the inventory. And so I began ... but first, what is that NOISE? Right. My mother and sister, calling to me from the top of the stairs, asking if I'm okay and carrying on while I just need QUIET. I think I was polite and said, "please just give me a minute." They fell silent, and waited while I let everything sink in.
To begin, my head hurts (still does, actually.) Okay, so I must have hit a stair or two on the way down. Next, my left arm suddenly has a heartbeat. Okay, so that hurts too. I already know the status of the left leg, so we'll just return to that later. Right leg, hmm, seems to be unaffected by any sort of trauma. Good. Oh, and there's pain in your upper and lower back ... check. Then my INS (internal navigation system) alarm went off. What the HELL is that pain signal I'm getting? Oh, it's a pain in my ass. [this is funny, but actually it isn't, in reality.] How I pulled this maneuver off is beyond me, but the right side of my, er, butt is SCREAMING in pain. [try and control your laughter, okay? I said this was serious.]
ANYWAY ...
Nevermind all the OTHER things that were going on in my life that were, shall we say, unpleasant? I had this new issue to deal with, so it was time to go back to the left foot-lodged-in-glass dilemma. I can only imagine what this looked like from the top of the stairs looking down, as I lay there motionless but my brain going through the checklist at a rapid pace. Then I heard it again, "ARE YOU OKAY????" and I begged my mother and sister to give me a minute more. I'd let them know as soon as inventory was complete. Right, the left foot in glass. Hmm... a funny thought: if this was a dart game I'd have a bull's eye, because my foot was exactly in the middle of the picture frame. And hey, look at that, all those glass shards poking out of my socked foot ... so where's the pain? Inventory check: none. Where's the warm, red stuff? Inventory check: none.
It's at this point when I realize my mother is standing on the stairs right behind where I lay, anxious to get her hands into the glass shards surrounding my foot. Though she's still asking me if I'm okay, I still haven't responded. I decide it's time to get up off the stair that's lodged into my back and try to shake this off. First, back to the left foot. I decide there's little choice but to move it, so I do. My left leg was headed left, while its foot was far right into the glass. Move leg first, then foot, I reasoned. Align the left knee to the direction of the left foot that's pointing right. Okay. No pain in the leg. I decide to pull my foot out of the glass, watching as the shards fell into the carpet. Odd. No warm red stuff. I'm not complaining, this was purely observation on my part. And hey, let's pick the head up while we're at it. Ouch. No, let's change that to #@%*& SHIT, that hurts! Regardless, I was determined to get myself up off the stairs, no matter what.
The first thing I did when I righted myself was to remove the villain: my socks. A quick check of the left foot revealed NOT ONE SCRATCH - an amazing feat that only I could have pulled off. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, watch me as I plunge down a flight of stairs on my arse and plow my left foot into a glass frame, scoring a bull's eye AND draw no warm red stuff. YES! I've done it! Watch me take a tumble down the stairs with the grace of a water buffalo and hydroplane into the ether ... ;-)
Mental inventory of the physical damage was done. I was up, I was talking and I was walking. WHERE THE HELL ARE MY PJ's??? I could care less what I just did, I wanted to sleep and my ass hurt. Nevermind that I could have a concussion, (watching that Cubs baseball player do that on the field the other day made me re-live my own head-cracking collision with the stair,) I was going to sleep, me and my hurtin' ass. Mom was afraid I wasn't telling her the truth, that based on the sound of my descent as well as the time it took me to get myself up, that perhaps there was more to it than I was fessing up. No, no, I'm fine, go to sleep, I begged. PUHLEEEEEEEEZE, I just want to sleep. It took all of maybe two minutes, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up 5 hours later.
Time to do the next day after the 'incident' mental inventory. Head hurts, check. Ass hurts, check. Anything else? Nope. Good. I could go about my business and not give it another thought.
Yeah, right.
Until the next day, when I woke up with that city bus on top of me. Hey! What happened to all-is-okay yesterday? Did I dream that? Where'd this bus come from? Someone told me that this is exactly what happens to people who walk away from car accidents: they say they're fine, but then the bus appears out of nowhere. Days later it sinks in ... the evil doers (couldn't resist using that) that live inside each of us who wake only when you experience a bodyquake and wreak havoc for days after. Every inch of you hurts, and in case you try to ignore that, all areas sport some ugly, bad-ass bruising, your wake-up call that yes, this really did happen. You really did hydroplane down those stairs at a speed previously unregistered. And yes, you really did plunge your foot into that glass picture frame and yes, without a scratch.
My head hurts. My back hurts. I've got visible bruises. I'll live.
June 09, 2003
New Use for High HeelsFrom Reuters: Woman Kills Man With Her High-Heeled Shoe
About that Tumble ...
The Donald telephoned me yesterday while at the park where he takes daughter Bethany on those hot and sunny California days. Since he knows that I can "get spastic" at a moment's notice (like walking into the steel support of a building, or smacking my face into the window of a store), I knew he'd appreciate this most recent display of my gymnastic abilities. After sending him the link to the Tumbleweed story, here was his response:
"Now I get it. You brought this all upon yourself. Just days earlier there
you go making fun of Barry Manilow. See what happens? Don't tempt fate like
that again. Anyone who writes thousands of radio jingles like KFC and
McDonald's obviously has a pact with Satan, who also owns the Internet, and
there you are, right there online in Satan's playground, making fun of Barry
Manilow. You're lucky they only gave you a warning fall. Remember the
staircase scene in the Exorcist? Need I say more."
June 10, 2003
Jamaican Riddims
I came across this site and recommend that you check it out ... it was great for a quick, close-your-eyes-and pretend-you're-on-vacation moment.
A riddim is a rhythm pattern, a bass line and drum beat, sometimes with a short melody. Jamaican music uses classic riddims to build new tunes, and popular new riddims are "versioned" by other producers and DJs.
You Go, Girl!!!
How cool is this?
A 97-year-old great-grandmother who quit school in the fourth grade to help her sharecropper parents pick cotton will receive a high school diploma after going back to school to study computers. - Reuters story.
June 11, 2003
Original Content
I'm a huge fan of original content. I feel there are many, many talented writers out there, and that talent sits home in a closet somewhere, never to be pulled out and dusted off, and put to use (for my entertainment, of course. Joking.) You have to want to write in the first place, and as evidenced by the title of my weblog, I tend to either write too much or too little. It's not easy, but I do what I can. B ut this is about everyone else out there, talented writers I know (Cary, Marcus, etc.) that I've begged, "YOU SHOULD WRITE MORE" or "I LOVE YOUR WRITING!" Anyway, you can't make people do what they don't want to do, but for the record, I'm waiting. Cary, in your case, I think I've been waiting for, say, 5 years? ;-)
And speaking of writing, from the person who pushed me to write again in this space, here's some original content: an essay Adam Curry wrote yesterday titled Copy-Paste Culture, his thesis about weblogs.
June 13, 2003
A Letter to Meg Ryan
I found this one via The Onion. "A Letter to Meg Ryan: Making the Case for a Serious Relationship" can be found on the HenryPanky.Com site. If you want a good laugh, here it is.
June 14, 2003
Father's Day Tomorrow
My dad died in 1998, and since then, I've not really paid much attention to Father's Day. I suppose you could say I had no reason to these past years. However, I am fortunate enough to have friends who are dads and IMHO, manage to do it quite splendidly, regardless of the daily grind and handling their responsibilities pretty much alone. With that thought in mind, and in case I don't blog tomorrow (I'll go to the cemetery) I wanted to wish those dads I know a heartfelt Happy Father's Day.
Your job is not an easy one, especially if you're raising girls--Donald and David, among others. [and I say this from having given my own dad enough to worry about.] Y'all know who you are ... HFD!
June 17, 2003
Conduct Unbecoming of an Officer
Col. Kassem Saleh, stationed at Fort Bragg, is under investigation by the Army over allegations that he simultaneously romanced dozens of women on the Internet and by phone and proposed to them.
The Times reported earlier that Saleh had been in contact with and proposed to women from throughout the United States and Canada. The newspaper said he met the women through various Internet personals sites. His attorney said, "He didn't intend to harm them in any way." If that's true, doesn't it make you wonder what his intentions were?
June 19, 2003
Creepy Crawlers
Zoe's Suffocating Spiders post today reminded me of my adventures with the same creature some time ago. From the archive of stories I've written:
Arachnid Anxiety
Dateline: November, 1996
Location: Somewhere in Atlanta, Georgia
Time: 8:30 a.m.
There was an unexpected murder in the house this morning. In search of some local maps in the telephone book, I walked over to the shelf to put the book back where it belonged. The dogs were inside with me, the coffeemaker gurgling its early morning tune. All was quiet. As I reached down to return the book to the shelf, my eye caught sight of a thumb-sized arachnid: black, fat, and crawling slowly toward me. The words
OH MY GOD
leapt out from my mouth, my brain searching for salvation from the possibility of being bitten on my bare feet.
We New Yorkers take these things seriously, especially while residing (temporarily, of course) in a wooded area. I did not have my glasses on, eliminating the possibility that my weary psyche could have magnified the menacer's body size. No, I was well within the scale of perfect vision.
I couldn't let this intruder crawl its way around the kitchen without my having some sort of defensive reaction. I did the only thing any tough-minded, hard-edged New Yorker would do in my place: I put on my cowboy boots.
With the deft and swift ability of a linebacker, but with the grace and charm of a prima ballerina, I raised my boot-clad foot and pounced. The dogs covered their eyes with their paws. There was arachnid everywhere. Squashed delicately under my boot and across the floor, arachnid body parts were strewn about. The deed was done. I committed murder in Atlanta. It wasn't pretty.
As I sit here sipping my coffee, I contemplate facing the arachnid police. Visions of hairy arms and legs pulling my body to arachnid headquarters blurs my thinking. I sit and wait in silence.
Copyright ©1996
June 20, 2003
Begging for a Ticket
Last week while channel surfing, I came across a performance by some orchestra and didn't pay much attention until I heard the "Radentsky March." That got me obsessing AGAIN about January 1, 2004 in Vienna, Austria.
For those of you who have read my blog in the past, you know that this is something that is really stuck in my craw. I MUST GET A TICKET TO THIS NEW YEAR'S DAY CONCERT. Yes, yes, yes, I've already put in for two tickets and was duly informed (on my birthday, of all days) of the ultimate rejection (too many requests for limited availability.) HOWEVER, I feel that where there is a will, there is a way. So ... I have decided that even though the Vienna Philharmonic could not accommodate my ticket request, SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE, must have a connection, or I'll just have to fly to Vienna, lurk outside the venue and try and scalp a ticket.
At least that's my current thinking. I really, really, really want to attend this concert. Really. Suggestions for ticket acquisition encouraged/welcomed!
Blast from the Past
Adam Curry's ScanLog features photos from his days as an MTV VJ.
Take Me Home Country Road
A house with a wraparound porch ... fields of green and the smell of freshly cut grass ... peace and quiet ... birds singing ... country roads... working in a general store in a rural area for some old guy, selling cans of green peas ... pardon me while I dream a little ...
While I was busy dreaming of the rural life yesterday, I found this blog, Letters from the Homefront: the Life of a Writer. It is written by Rundy, who lives and works in a rural area in upstate New York.
June 21, 2003
Blah, Blah, Blah
In the now weekly Friday night olympic event of get-it-all-in-under-an-hour chat, the Marcus telephoned from Nashville to check up on "sister Cindy" [aka, me.] Our conversations always span the globe: from the dullness of the coffee shop patrons in Nashville, to hacking 101 (this was a good 20 minutes' worth) and who f&$@#d with my blog this past week to making Mark laugh via my blog and The Donald's comments. As always, Marcus did not disappoint. I can always count on him to dislodge an unbelievable amount of humor, hence the length of time we spend on the phone. We also discussed the new, "new thing" of twenty-somethings who have their tongues split [Reuters] or their penises, for that matter (ewwww.) Marcus said he saw a guy at Burning Man some years ago who had done this self-mutilation. "Hey, I see you split your penis ... how's that working for you?"
Anyway, Marcus is doing just fine, though I suspect he's tired of living in Nashville, not unlike his days living in purgatorial Charlotte. He headed north to Binghamton to surprise his dad on Dad's Day but had to get back to work so his trip was a quickie.
ION, friend David is in Kenya working on a documentary about humanitarian aid. Thankfully he responded to my email this morning inquiring about his well-being, as the US closed its embassy in Nairobi because of what it called a terrorist threat. David wrote, Don't worry, we're only in Nairobi tonight then we're back out into the bush, far far away from any terrorists.
*sigh*
The Donald hasn't checked in yet, and as for the rest of you soggy, limp noodles, I end this entry eloquently:
:P
June 22, 2003
This Site Rated PC for Personal Content
Sam has a blog. He writes about programming and his personal life. Someone posted a comment on his site complaining that Sam writes about his personal life in his blog, instead of focusing completely on programming. Mark Pilgrim makes the point on his own blog that he himself is "not under any obligation to anyone whatsoever" when it comes to what he writes about. Here's my two cents on this topic.
1. If You Don't Like It, Leave
I want THIS, but get rid of THAT. Folks bitching about your content is nothing new; it has been around for a long, long time. My response to that hasn't changed: if you don't like what you read, then by all means don't stop by. Visitor options: visit and read or don't visit and don't read.
2. Your Opinion
Personal Web sites have been around for years. Many blogs offer the site visitor the ability to share their thoughts instantly through comments on the site. By providing this option, the author leaves him or herself open to all types of commentary, good or bad. Visitor options: comment or don't. It is your choice.
In the case of Sam, his critic could have exercised some common courtesy by emailing Sam instead of using the comments option to flog him in public. But who the hell am I to tell Sam's critic what to do, and who the hell is this guy to tell Sam what to include/not include on his blog.
Any thoughts?
The Misprintz
For former On Ramp family members, this news bulletin comes from (Special Agent) Frank Johnson ...
Former colleague, bon vivant, technical genius and all-around-nice guy Bill Elberg and his band, The Misprintz, just released their first CD, titled, "songs that girls like."
June 24, 2003
Summer, Last Year
How I'm Spending my Summer Vacation
Or, What to Do While Playing Nurse Ratchet
When mom broke her hip and dislocated her shoulder in mid-May, I never entertained the thought that I was about to embark on a new adventure (hey, I could call it "The Adventures of Nurse Ratchet," though somehow that title sounds obscene.) After my sister's phone call that afternoon, I just sort of went on auto pilot and packed a bag full of clothes, grabbed the laptop, and called a car service to take me out to Long Island at 11 p.m that night. (This is one of the advantages (?) of working for yourself, I suppose.) Rest assured, this missive is by no means a memo found among the complaint central files. On the contrary, I've little to whine and moan about (I could have been an Enron employee, and that would give me lots to bitch about.)
I digress.
To say I've been busy is an understatement. I've been ALL OVER THE PLACE. Mom was in the local hospital that Friday, and the very next day she had surgery. After enduring the unbearable pain of an ER doctor popping her shoulder back into its socket sans any type of meds, (she passed out from the pain, and I'm glad I wasn't there to witness this, as I would have taken the crunchy granola* doctor by the collar and tossed him out of the ER,) her surgeon stuck a rod the length of an arm into her broken hip, threw a sling on her shoulder, and sent her shuffling off to the hospital's physical therapy department. After a few days of PT and in the middle of one of these fun-filled sessions, the social worker popped in and pointed to a few folks, including mumsy, and bellowed "YOU! YOU! And YOU! YOU'RE OUTTA HERE!" And just like that, *POOF,* mom was off to the rehabilitation center.
*Crunchy Granola is a slang phrase I use for a variety of things; in this case, I assumed the ER doctor frequently swallows quaaludes. I felt this way because the ER doctor suggested he hypnotize my mom so she wouldn't feel anything. Yeah, right. If I step on your foot with a high-heeled shoe, would it hurt? Yeah, okay.
Lucky for me, mom's chosen location for physical therapy is RIGHT BY THE OCEAN. Yippee! Only a few blocks away, and I'd be right smack in the middle of sun, sand and surf. Yeah, right. Like I was going to be able to take advantage of LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION while mom was rehabbing it? (hey, is that a word?) Dream on, Cindy. It was a pleasant daydream, but reality was a different animal. Every day I drove down to the beach, which is 15 minutes by car from mom's house. I did this twice, sometimes three times a day. I learned to phone the center prior to departure, and inquire as to when mom's physical and occupational therapy would take place that day. It seems like I did that eons ago, when it was only last month. Time flies when you're hopping around town by car. Anyway, while not checking up on the nursing staff at the center, I was busy playing Martha S.; you know, that chick I hate who may soon be decorating her jail cell. So there I was, pulling the car into a parking spot in front of the local nursery, running in and fetching impatiens to plant in front of mom's house. Pardon me, but what the hell do I know about planting flowers? As friend Holger would say, "LEARN!" I dressed carefully for my task: long-sleeved, navy blue collector's item dot com t-shirt, blue jeans with a smattering of white paint on them, old sneakers. Hair pulled back into a tiny ponytail, bangs banished with a headband. I was ready to go.
So sue me, I was minus a few key tools, such as gardening gloves, rakes, stakes and automobiles (joking). Make that rakes, stakes, plant pots, plant soil, etc. All the goodies one could find at Home Depot, I didn't have, until I dove head-first into dad's gardening archives. I'd forgotten that dad was big on gardening and it was a long time ago that he'd had a massive garden where one could find all sorts of veggies. Insert BIG sigh here. I'm sure dad's getting a good laugh watching his youngest daughter attempt to fill his shoes.
Sorry, I'm digressing yet again.
Anyway, the garage brought forth a plethora of tools, a true gardener's delight. Rakes, stakes, soil, sprays, shovels. I found all of these things AFTER planting a few dozen impatiens. Who said I was swift? Mom's front yard was beginning to take shape and suddenly life was brimming from under the bushes and on the sides leading to her front door. Though she would have preferred a red, white and blue floral motif, I couldn't find blue flowers and had little time to unearth them from the local nursery. Besides, I did manage to find RED and WHITE impatiens, and that would have to do for now. In addition to this lovely color combination, I also threw in some purple pansies my sister purchased, as well as some salmon, white and fuschia flowers (upon reflection, this combination does lend itself to imagery of a psychedelic nature. What WAS I THINKING?????) I can only attribute it to my lack of focus, the insanity of worrying about mom, the house, the planting, the yard, the garbage, my apartment, my mail, the railroad, wacked out friends, you name it. I've been overwhelmed.
But all of this running back and forth came to an end when mom was released mid-June from her own personal hell of being in a rehab center that doubled as a nursing home. (Another story, indeed. Remind me to tell you about the aged naked woman I saw one night while visiting mom.) When mom came home from rehab, she delighted in the new floral fauna of her front yard. I was so excited that she liked it, I went into overkill mode and decided to tackle the mini baseball field we call the backyard. Call me insane, I deserve it. It wasn't enough that every free inch of dirt in the front was now covered in sweet bouquets. No, I'd go the extra mile and venture back into the field of gardener's dreams and plant some more. While mom was busy in the house with the visiting nurse service and physical therapist, I could be found outside futzing around, busily digging on my hands and knees, dirt firmly packed under my fingernails (gardening gloves would be purchased much later, after I developed some sort of weird and funky rash on my hands which thankfully has disappeared.)
Once the planting was finished, (actually, once mom said to stop), I could go outside in the early morning, pull up a patio chair where my dad used to sit, and look out over the yard and admire my own work. Funny, I hadn't realized I was doing exactly what dad used to do until my older sister pointed it out to me. Although you can't see me doing it, I'm shrugging right now. What can I say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it.
Digression #54.
My backyard pursuits became so insane (there's that word again) that my brother joked that my new job was "Head of Property Management." I still laugh at that one, because it brings to mind other titles I've been given since I've been here (uh oh, I feel another digression coming on.) I promise I'll make this one as brief as possible. My other titles include, but are not limited to, Bus Driver (mom gave me that one since I drive both my brother and sister to the train station every morning), The Gestapo (brother and sister gave me that one, referring to the way I am as far as mom's recovery is concerned, i.e., "MOM! Where's your cane!?!" "MOM! Time for your bandage to be changed!" etc.) I also cook dinners, make lunches, clean the house, take out the garbage. And no, I'm not bragging. I do it simply because it needs to be done. And each day, I take a minute and sit in the backyard, and I listen to the birds singing and the tree branches bristling in the breeze, hear the occasional car alarm go off and the neighbor's dog bark (whimper?) like it's being strangled. Ahhh. This is the life.
Seriously, when all's somewhat quiet in the backyard, I really get a chance to take advantage of the suburbia I've been living in since mid-May and appreciate nature. Like just the other morning, for example, I caught the sight of two birds en flagrante delicto (isn't Latin wonderful?) and I just had to chuckle. It's not often one gets to see nature attempt reproduction, and on the neighbor's roof, no less! Have they no shame?
Sluts.
Then there's the elusive cardinal, that flaming red bird who hangs out around mom's backyard, whizzing past my head each time I'm in search of it, digital camera ready to point, aim and click. Damn! There it goes again, zoom, zoom, zoom. Although I've managed to record my gardening accomplishments, I've been a complete failure in capturing the bird with the flat tail (as you can see, bird watching may be the next new thing for me, but I've not yet graduated to bird identification. Hopefully I won't spiral into the depths of becoming a bird watcher/i.d. chick.)
Digression #55.
And speaking of birds, let me wax poetically about the statue of St. Francis my dad had put in the yard. There is a nice ground level box which surrounds the stump of a tree long cut down after being struck by lightning (another story, another time perhaps.) Within the confines of said box, I'd planted some impatiens and pansies to accompany St. Francis and Bambi, the small deer statue my sister placed alongside the tree stump. St. Francis, according to sis, evidently was into nature and is thought to be the gatekeeper of sorts in our yard (hey if that's incorrect information don't tell me about it, tell my sister!) I guess his presence here might encourage the flowers to grow, I'm not sure. Anyway, one day I was in the middle of my early morning routine watering of the flowers and ventured to the statue to water the flowers in the box. Upon finishing the flower shower, I noticed that St. Francis had some odd-looking purple deposits on his head and arms. Closer inspection brought the realization that the birds had used St. Francis's head as their official porta potty. In plain English, their toilet. I have no idea what these birds were eating, but the result was a deep purple. Berries, perhaps.
After this most recent discovery, I decided to watch the birds more intently. It wasn't long before I caught them in the act. First they'd fly to the top of the garage. After taking a bit of a rest there, they'd take off once again, swooping down toward St. Francis and landing on his head. There, in broad daylight, the damned bird would lift its tail and poop purple goulash all over St. Francis.
Pigs!
In between my day jobs of bus driver, property management, cook, housekeeper and bird watcher, I've also made some time for more serious business pursuits-- making jewelry. Though this started out as making beaded eyeglass holders, it blossomed into necklaces, ankle bracelets, earrings and wrist bracelets. Go figure. Am I super woman or what? Kind of leaves you humming that tune from a television commercial of long ago, "I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan · 'cuz I'm a wooooooooooman ·' [big grin.] And you thought that was the END? Ha! I had an afterthought. With all of these things going on in my oh-so-busy-miss-important-allaboutme-life, I've had some friends who sensed that I needed desperately to GET A LIFE. One really, really, really tried to get me to bike ride the boardwalk at the beach in the morning, and though I've yet to accomplish getting me and the bike to the train station for the 10-minute trip, I INDEED managed to get the tires of the bike pumped, cleaned up the bike so it's all sparkly, purchased a new padded seat cover to protect one's bum, AND ...
... purchased the bike pass needed to take the bike on the train.
See! I did THAT too! The very next task is to get said bum on said train and then put said bum on said bike seat and ride said bike on said boardwalk. I'm tired already.
Another friend inquired as to when I might be visiting him and his lovely wife and daughter in Montauk. Montauk!?! I'm lucky I can get said bum to the city, to said apartment to obtain said mail from mini mailbox on Fridays. And since the weather's been gloriously humid and gross, I moved that day of the week to Sundays · I think out of pure distaste for venturing into the city at all.
Digression #56.
In the evenings, I can be found sleeping, or cooking dinner then sleeping, or sitting outside until the flies begin biting, or sleeping, or playing interior decorator at a friend's home, or sleeping, or holding my eyelids open with toothpicks, or sleeping, or ...
... watching the birds poop on St. Francis.
And mom? Mom's coming along, she's faster than lightning, more powerful than a locomotive, presently unable to leap tall buildings with a single bound, but I've no doubt that will happen. It's just a matter of time.
Copyright ©2002 CAC
June 30, 2003
I Got Married!!!
Over the weekend I attended a family dinner party at my brother's place. Everyone was busy talking, talking, talking, and I was having a difficult time adding my own two cents to the conversation. I became very frustrated. So frustrated in fact that I decided to do something drastic. I'd say something that hopefully would get everyone's attention. I stood up (for the full effect) and said quite loudly that I had an announcement to make. They stopped, looked at me, and then returned their gazes back to one another and kept talking, and talking, and talking. I became even more frustrated, and decided I'd try shock value. Hmm, good idea. It's worked in the past. Yeah, that's it.
Without further hesitation, I announced in an extra-loud voice bordering on screaming, HELLO!?! I JUST WANTED YOU ALL TO KNOW THAT A FEW MONTHS AGO I GOT MARRIED!!! You would think this would make family members stop dead in their tracks and pay attention? Not in my family. Granted, they did stop for a mere second or two, but all they did was look at me, facial expressions blank, and THEY SAID NOTHING! Nothing! My family just sat there and picked up the conversation where it left off before my big announcement. I couldn't believe it. What the hell? Am I NOT speaking the same language as you? What part of GOT MARRIED did you not understand?
I sat down, now completely depressed that my own family had no reaction whatsoever. Perhaps I was at the wrong dinner party? Who are these people anyway???
Had I been serious, that would have been the definitive balloon-deflater moment. So much for trying to add my two cents to a conversation. Maybe next time I'll try some other type of attention-getting behavior, such as spitting water through the space in my front teeth ... putting straws up my nostrils ... painting my face like a clown ... standing on my head ...